


Twenty Sherlolly Prompts: Here's To You, Don Ho

by MizJoely



Series: Twenty Sherlolly Prompts [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gratuitious Hawaiian shirt wearing, Morgue Sex, PWP, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2179353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Broomclosetkink said: Heatwave drives Sherlock to the morgue to cool off, he and Molly end up snarking at each other which becomes a fight and then surprise! Angry sex!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Sherlolly Prompts: Here's To You, Don Ho

**Author's Note:**

  * For [broomclosetkink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/gifts).



> Here it is, as requested. Warnings for, well, sex, and a really bad pun at the end. I couldn't not use it once it lodged itself in my brain. Enjoy!

It was too fucking hot. All of London, all of Great Britain, all of the UK – too. Fucking. HOT. Too hot at Baker Street, too hot at John and Mary’s house in the suburbs, too hot at NSY, too hot in his Mind Palace, too hot _everywhere_.

Normally Sherlock Holmes took the weather in stride, but not today. Not when the temperature was soaring well above 37C, and the sun was beating relentlessly down and there weren’t any cases worth exerting himself for. Well, there was the one his brother had offered up in that smarmy way he had, something to do with salmon smugglers in Alaska, but even the temptation of cold weather wasn’t enough for Sherlock to bestir himself on his brother’s behalf. Certainly not when it involved a trip to America!

And so one very hot, very sweaty, _very_ disgruntled Consulting Detective found himself standing outside the doors of St. Bart’s Hospital, a place he had been avoiding for several weeks now.

And all because of one little Specialist Registrar for whom he had some very, very confusing feelings.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought rebelliously as he marched through the front doors and down the hall that led to the lift he needed to take to get to the morgue. _Even if she’s still mad at me for using Mary as bait to bring down that Moriarty imposter, she can’t forbid me from the morgue. I have special dispensation to be there and she knows it._

He couldn’t help but notice, however, the way his steps slowed the closer he got to his destination. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to just show up like this, with his once-crisp aubergine shirt sticking to his body and his curls damp and sweaty, his feet burning in his shoes and socks…he made a slight detour into the men’s changing room, grabbed the first clean shirt he saw, dumped his own shirt into a hamper labeled ‘Scrubs Only’ and toed off his shoes, wrinkling his nose at the rather ripe odor that wafted upwards as he did so. His eyes scanned the room quickly, summing up the evidence he needed to assure him he would be uninterrupted for at least a half-hour unless some idiot allowed himself to be vomited on by a patient. Then he finished shucking off the remainder of his clothes and jumped into the shower for a cool, refreshing interlude under the spray.

When he finished he dried off with a towel, leaving it in a damp, careless heap on the tiled floor as he went in search of something to go with the colorful shirt he’d grabbed…ah, perfect, a pair of freshly-pressed khaki cargo shorts, a bit shorter on his lanky form than they were on the much shorter owner – another pathologist who wasn’t actually on duty today but simply was in the habit of keeping fresh clothes on hand – but fitting quite comfortably around the waist.

He didn’t bother looking for clean pants to go underneath as he wadded up the rest of his limp, sweaty clothes and emptied the pockets before tossing them into the ‘Scrubs Only’ hamper with his shirt. He simply pulled on the shorts, slid his feet back into his shoes _sans_ socks, and strolled down the corridor, feeling much refreshed and more than a little pleased with himself. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Detective, ready to take on the world and whatever it could chuck at him. Even, he thought with a silent laugh, Molly Hooper.

As soon as he opened the door to the morgue, however, he realized his mistake. Molly was there by herself, yes. It was beautifully cool, even downright chilly, yes.

But if he’d thought she’d be glad to see him…no. Not in the least.

She was standing next to an autopsy table, although it was currently unoccupied by anything other than her elbows (now removed as she faced him with a frown) and a paperback novel. So, a slow day then, paperwork all caught up, the entire room scrubbed to within an inch of its proverbial life, even the floor sparkling clean. A _very_ slow day. Giving Molly nothing but loads of time to think about all the reasons she had for being mad at Sherlock Holmes.

And he’d unwittingly given her yet another, judging by the scowl marring her delicate features as she slowly, deliberately swept him from head to toe with her disapproving gaze. “Really, Sherlock? Stealing someone’s clothes? Or are you going to try and tell me that’s a _disguise_?”

He’d intended to be conciliatory, to perhaps offer up a vague apology or at least request a truce – it had been nearly a month, after all! – but her words quickly got his back up; he stiffened, folded his arms across his chest in deliberate mimicry of her own pose, and curled his lip in a manner she could never hope to duplicate, not even at her most angry. He was simply better equipped in that department, both in temperament and in relative lip-size. “Oh, and you’re going to try and tell me those are _your_ own clothes?”

He mimicked her head-to-toe examination, taking in the pink ballet flats (very much in her style although she generally work darker colors to work), the just-above-knee-length skirt (flowery and flowy), and the fitted yellow sleeveless blouse (matching the yellow blooms in the skirt, just as her shoes matched the pink ones), only semi-covered by her unbuttoned white lab coat. Overall he approved; it matched both her personality (well, her usual sunny personality, not the sourpuss he was currently confronted with) and her body type.

He was not, of course, going to tell her that. “So, tell me, Molly, who dressed you today? One of your nieces?”

Oh, that shot hit home; her two nieces were both under the age of ten and once, a long while back (before he’d jumped from the roof of this very building), Sherlock had carelessly pointed out that both girls had better dress sense than their aunt. That particular comment (it was, in his mind, perfectly valid since it was nothing but the truth!) had earned him a week of hurt silence on Molly’s part and a long, long, LONG lecture from John on the cab ride home after she banned him from the path lab.

If he wasn’t careful, judging by the gathering storm clouds on Molly’s expressive face, he was about to be banned again, if not slapped. No, she reserved physical contact for when he was being more than merely irksome – and he’d been very, very careful not to piss her off by taking drugs or faking engagements or allowing himself to be shot (although why that had angered her so much was still a mystery to him). How was he supposed to know that not telling Mary she was acting as a decoy would set Molly off? Honestly, the woman was beyond unpredictable, she was downright erratic, which meant it didn’t matter how careful he was; she still might slap him…

Molly lurched forward, her face red, hands fisted at her side as she stomped up to him, stopping only inches away. He braced himself, but she attacked only with words this time. “Sherlock Holmes, any man dressed in that hideous monstrosity of a Hawaiian shirt – really, ukuleles and topless hula girls? – doesn’t have a leg to stand on when complaining about how someone else dresses!”

“But I wasn’t complaining,” he snapped, being sure to curl his lip again in a sneer. “I was merely complimenting your nieces for finally dressing you proper—mmph!”

He was silenced by Molly’s mouth on his. She’d raised herself on her tiptoes, fisted her hands in the colorful lapels of his (truly odious) ‘borrowed’ shirt, and was now kissing him furiously.

‘Furiously’ of course being the operative word. Molly was clearly still angry with him, just as he was still angry with her for being so blasted unreasonable. And adorable. And sexy…oh, wait, sexy? Was she…yes, he decided as his arms curled around her, one hand snaking up beneath her hair and tugging it loose from the elastic holding it up, she most certainly was. Sexy. Gorgeous. Delicious.

He realized he was mumbling those very words aloud as her mouth opened beneath his and her hands scrabbled beneath his (really, it was incredibly odious and needed to come off NOW) ‘borrowed’ shirt. Before he knew it his hands were just as busy as hers, tugging at her lab coat and undoing the buttons on her blouse while his mouth slipped down to her neck. Her mouth has slipped a bit as well, and judging by the enthusiasm with which she was sucking, he would have a large purple mark as a souvenir of this encounter to either show off or hide, depending on how things ended.

His shirt soon landed on the floor next to Molly’s lab coat, leaving him clad only in shoes and shorts. Which left her wearing entirely too much, in his opinion. Once her shirt was unbuttoned and shoved back on her shoulders, he undid the front clasp of her (pink, lacy – and was that a kitten wearing a bow on it?!?) bra and greedily sucked in each pink, swollen nipple in turn, cupping his hands around them and thumbing the wet nubs as he moved his mouth back and forth. She moaned, a breathy, wanton sound that went straight to his groin; if he hadn’t already had an erection, that sound certainly would have done it.

Distractedly he realized he’d backed her up to the counter; grabbing her by the hips he hoisted her up and sat her on it, putting her at exactly the right height to spare his neck further strain, since her face was now just about in front of his own. And her groin was exactly aligned with his, even more convenient; he felt her hands working the zip and button to his purloined cargo shorts. Any second now she would discover his lack of pants, and be pleasantly surprised…oh, God, yes, there were her hands, cupping his balls, freeing his cock, running heated fingers along its even more heated length, one thumb caressing the pre-cum beading its tip…

He gave another groan and flipped her skirt up around her waist, managing to free her from her knickers as she helpfully wiggled her bum, never once letting go of his erection. Which approved – no, his erection couldn’t ‘approve’ anything, HE approved, why was it so blasted hard to think right now? 

Ah, that was why. He sighed as his fingers grazed the gathering moisture between her legs, and she let out a hiss, sinking her teeth deeper into his neck and her nails (one hand had apparently moved back up to his head, when had she…bollocks, who cared?) into his scalp. Her other hand continued to move over his ever-hardening erection until he couldn’t take it anymore; he gave another growl of desire, pulled her knees apart, and bent down to lick and nip at her soft, pink pussy with its neatly trimmed rim of dark brown pubic hair…darker brown than the hair on her head; did his naughty Molly color her hair? Something to investigate in future. When he wasn’t busy investigating her sweet, juicy little cunt…

Since when, he thought distractedly as he buried his tongue between her soft pink folds, did he do dirty talk? Even in his own mind – especially in his own mind! – he was usually much more precise, analytical…clinical, that was the word. Apparently sex with Molly brought out the filthy side of himself he hadn’t realized existed. Would she appreciate hearing that side of him when his mouth wasn’t occupied sucking her clit, or his tongue wasn’t thrusting deep within her? Would she even be able to hear him over the sound of her own keening wails and moans?

She was on the verge of orgasm; he could feel, taste it, hear it in her panting breaths. But she’d started this fight, and there was no way she was getting off this easily. Mentally chortling at the cleverness of his pun (knowing she would roll her eyes if he voiced it aloud), Sherlock withdrew his mouth from her body and straightened up, looking down his nose at her. She looked entirely undone, with her hair disheveled and hanging over her shoulders, her blouse and bra open and sliding down her shoulders, her skirt bunched up around her waist. She was glaring at him; good. Wouldn’t want her to think she had the upper hand, after all. “Why did you stop?” she demanded, pulling her hand away from his prick.

Hmm, perhaps he should have thought this through; he wasn’t happy about that turn of events, not at all. Still, he knew he could get her to touch him again, press her entire soft, warm body against his, wrap her legs around his waist… “I want to fuck you, Molly,” he said, grabbing her by the hips and yanking her against his body. Would she fight him, tell him no, turn him away?

“Then get on with it!” she growled, her hands once again on his cock, tugging and pushing impatiently as she lined him up with her opening. He let her do all the work, forcing himself to stand passively by, a bored expression on his face, pretending a coolness he absolutely did not feel. Nor was she fooled by it; her grin was dark, feral, as she cupped his balls and slid a finger back toward the crack of his ass, slicking it with her own juices first.

A strangled moan escaped his lips and his eyes snapped shut at the sensation of her finger teasing his entrance, the tip slipping in as she continued to work his cock with her other hand. If he wasn’t careful he was going to come right there, without ever having made his way inside her, where he most wanted to be.

No, that wouldn’t do. Not at all. Dropping all pretense at disinterest, he pulled her hands away, shoving them back and pressing his fingertips against her breast, forcing her to lean back. She got the idea right away, but she’d always been one of the clever ones; she supported herself on her hands and raised her legs, her thighs and knees warm against his hips and sides as he positioned himself, thrusting roughly into her body, sinking right to his balls without stopping. He grasped her hips and began to move, her every gasp and moan and strangled “Fuck, yes, Sherlock!” urging him on. She met him thrust for thrust, neither asking for nor offering anything soft or gentle, taking his urgency in stride and meeting it with her own.

She came quickly, practically sobbing out his name as she shook and shuddered against his body. He stilled himself until her breathing slowed to something approaching normal, then waited for her to open her tightly-shut eyes and meet his gaze. She nodded in response to his silent question, and her hands came to rest on his shoulders as he once again began moving, rutting deep into her, the feel of her slick muscles against his cock the most glorious thing he’d ever had the pleasure to feel.

He came with a low moan, his orgasm taking him completely by surprise; normally he had better control over himself, but it had been many years since he’d indulged…and never with a woman he had feelings for. “Crap,” he said aloud, opening his eyes (of course they’d snapped shut at some time, it was almost physically impossible for him to keep them open when he was coming) and staring down at Molly in sudden realization. 

He’d enjoyed having sex with her. He wanted to do it again. What was more, he didn’t just want the sex, he wanted her, all of her. Waking up next to her, sharing meals and coffee, watching crap telly together curled up on their sofa…their sofa? Hell. Yes, their sofa, because he wanted her to move in with him. Right away. Today, if possible…

“It was loads better than ‘crap’,’ Molly said with an angry frown. No, not angry…hurt.

“Not the sex,” he rushed to explain as he gingerly pulled himself from her body. “The ‘I’ve just had an epiphany and I’m not sure how I feel about it’…thing.”

Molly pushed him aside and hopped down from the counter, appearing unconcerned with the semen now running down her legs as she headed for the sink. “What epiphany?” she asked, still not sounding entirely happy with him. Then again, she hadn’t been happy with him when this whole thing started; he supposed even mind-blowing sex couldn’t erase all the pain and anger she’d been harboring. Or the fear; her anger at him for getting shot suddenly made sense, a secondary epiphany crashing over him. “You were scared, when I got shot,” he said wonderingly. “That’s why you were so angry. You were scared I would die.”

Molly rolled her eyes as she meticulously wiped herself clean with a handful of damp paper towels. “Took you this long to figure that out?” she snarked.

“Yes, well, to be fair I’m really not used to anyone besides my parents and maybe John feeling that strongly about me,” he confessed as he reached down and pulled his borrowed shorts up, doing up the zip and button before padding over to join Molly at the sink. She offered him a cup of water; he downed it one gulp before setting it on the counter and pulling her into his arms. She fought him at first, just a little bit, before melting into his embrace and allowing him to kiss her. “Forgive me, Molly,” he murmured against her cheek when the kiss ended. “I’m not good at this sort of thing. And Mary said it was all right, that she didn’t mind being the decoy,” he added hopefully.

Molly glowered at him, then shook her head and gave him a rueful smile. “You always did know how to work around me,” she said, trailing her fingers up the side of his face and combing them through his sweat-matted curls. So much for the shower he’d taken; perhaps she could be coaxed into sharing another one with him? “So what now, Sherlock? Are we…something? Lovers? Fuck buddies? Friend with benefits?”

He scowled at her. “Where on Earth did you come up with those ridiculous terms? We’re partners, just as we’ve always been,” he said firmly. 

“Partners who are just friends who happen to fuck each other or something more?” she pressed, and he realized how important it was for her to hear the words. For her to be allowed to say them to him as well, words she’d never spoken aloud because he’d been too much of an ass to be willing to hear them.

“Partners who live together, who will probably marry one another if that’s something you feel strongly about. Partners,” he added with another soft kiss, “who love one another. There, I said it. I love you, Molly Hooper, and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to sort myself out.”

Her arms tightened around him; he returned the hug, resting his chin on her head as she pressed her cheek against his bare chest. It felt very pleasant, even with the dampness he could feel…oh, damn, why was she crying? “Why are you crying?” he demanded, moving his head away so he could peer down at her. “Is it because we didn’t use a condom? I can assure you there’s no need to worry about the transmission of STIs, and since you have a birth control implant we don’t have to worry about the possibility of pregnancy either…”

She smacked him lightly on the chest and looked up at him, smiling through her tears. “No, you git, I’m crying because I’m happy!”

He shook his head. “That makes absolutely no sense,” he pronounced, cradling her face in his hands and softly kissing the tears away. “Please tell me you won’t be doing that very often in future.”

“No promises,” she replied, her grin turning decidedly cheeky as she kissed the tip of his right index finger and slipped out of his grasp. “I’m going to give Mike a ring and tell him I’m leaving early.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why?”

The look Molly gave him was one he didn’t need to wrack his brains over, since ‘smoldering’ was the very first word that sprang to mind. “So we can go back to yours and give Mrs. Hudson something to gossip about,” she replied.

He grinned and looked round for his discarded shirt, shrugging into as Molly spoke to her supervisor. Oh, he approved, very much so; it would be interesting to compare their second act of copulation to the first, since clearly neither of them were angry any more. Would it be slow and languorous, or just as hard and furious as this one had been? Would Molly want to be on top? He rather liked that position, as it gave him an unobstructed view of his partner’s breasts as they jiggled and bounced….

He discreetly adjusted himself; he was already half-hard again, and suddenly impatient to leave the coolness of St. Bart’s air conditioned halls for the stifling warmth of Baker Street. Perhaps he’d have some fans installed, or offer to pay to have central air installed, surely Mrs. Hudson couldn’t object to that…

“Right, that’s sorted, and since it’s such a slow day Mike isn’t worried about me waiting for the next shift to come in.” Molly grinned and took Sherlock’s hand as she grabbed her crumpled lab coat from the floor and hung it over her arm. “So let’s go back to yours and see what stamina records we can set.”

Sherlock refrained from pointing out that it was unlikely that the two of them could do any such thing…but then again, perhaps she was merely talking personal best? Something to think about… “Why are you grinning?” he asked suspiciously as she gave him a smug look.

She shrugged and fingered the cheap fabric of his shirt. “Just thinking about how this – ” she gave a light tug – “was the reason for us having sex.”

When he raised an inquiring eyebrow, she added with a smirk, “After all, what’s a Hawaiian shirt without a lei?”

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, then grinned and put his arm around her shoulder, holding her close as his guffaws echoed down the corridor the entire way to the lift.


End file.
